A/N: It was a long wait, I know, I'm sorry – especially since even after this being hanging in there for so long, I was still getting faves and alerts and reviews ^^ Thank you so much for those, each notification e-mail makes my day :D
Btw, if you wanna know what I do when I'm not writing (which is admittedly often), you can check out my dA account, I go by the name of kuschelirmel there as well .com (photomanips & photography, plus a stock account with tutorials and such)
Chapter 9
Methos was driving Caitlyn's BMW while Don rode along in silence, his already pale complexion had completely drained of colour. The gunshot wound may not have been life-threatening, but he was bleeding badly enough to send his system into shock. Methos had to get him some treatment besides the makeshift bandage – his own shirt – that he had wrapped around the other man's leg before he lost too much blood. And then he needed to find a place to stash Caitlyn until he could figure out what to do with her. I should just take her head and present it to Assaro. That should get me close enough to the bastard to find out how many of these young idiots he has running – and murdering – for him.
"You're going the wrong way," Don's voice interrupted Methos' thoughts.
"I'm not," Methos replied. "We're not going to visit the Doc." The Doc was the kind of doctor that would not fill out forms or alert the authorities because of a gunshot wound. The club even paid him well enough for him to do house calls – mostly at his own house as long as the bikers didn't create a fuss – at all hours.
"Why?" Don asked incredulously.
"Because he'll tell the club."
"So? Let him! Who cares as long as he doesn't tell the police?"
"Because I don't want them to know unless I tell them. Simple, isn't it?" Methos answered. "Look, I'll patch you up myself and then I'll go take care of my little problem." He jerked a thumb towards the boot where the seemingly dead Caitlyn lay.
"If you say so," Don shrugged, clearly not getting where Methos was going with this. "Even so, since when are you a doctor?"
Since before you were even born, Methos thought grimly. "I've patched up enough people to know what I'm doing, but if you prefer, I can let you bleed out just as well."
That settled the matter.
Amanda drew her sword as soon as she felt the immortal approach. Turning the lights off, she flattened herself against the wall beside the door. As much as she would have liked to make herself believe that the guy coming in any minute would be "her" Methos, she knew chances of that were slim to none. For one it could well be someone else entirely, but she didn't think so. This was Jude Nichols' apartment after all. No, it would be Methos alright. It just wouldn't be the man she remembered.
And with that in mind, she couldn't be sure she wouldn't have to fear for her head either. Cos let's face it, even in his peaceful Adam Pierson days he could have bested me without me realizing what hit me, she thought, even without resorting to nasty tricks. She didn't even want to know what he could do now, now that he was in training so to speak.
Amanda heard a floorboard in the hallway creak before the door was slowly eased open. A sliver of light cut through the apartment's darkness, growing larger, before it was blocked by a shadow.
"There's no need to hide," a cold voice threatened, "I'll find you anyway and then you'll meet the same fate as that bitch you lot sent after me. Nothing like two lightshows in one night." With that the man stepped into the room, blocking her advance easily.
Amanda didn't have time to ponder his words as steel rang on steel. To get more room to maneuver, she scrambled away from the wall, only to find herself facing another disadvantage. The light was at his back, making her squint to see. And still the blows kept on coming. Taking another step back she felt the couch press into her legs.
"Stop," she cried, "it's me, Amanda!"
Another blow delivered from above sent her falling onto the couch and she felt her sword knocked from her grip. Here's to hoping it's Methos, she thought, panic welling up inside her as cold steel was pressed against her throat.
"Stay put," he growled as he picked up her weapon and switched on the light. He took a chair opposite her, his sword never leaving her neck.
The man's face went from hostile to surprised and back to hostile so fast that Amanda couldn't be sure she'd actually seen the transformation at all. What she could be sure of though, was that while the biker in front of her could be no other than Methos, there was no denying he had changed a lot since he'd walked out of Joe's bar all those years ago.
His careless, teasing smile was gone and had left nothing but suspicion behind. Methos' hair was longer, his face unshaven for days and he looked tired. He wore a biker kutte, but no shirt underneath, revealing an array of tattoos. Amanda couldn't help but stare at the one on his chest. It was a black and grey depiction of four horsemen, long coats billowing behind them, their hoods drawn low so none of the faces could be seen. They were thundering towards her in a cloud of dust and debris and the rider in front was seated on a pale horse.
"Amanda," Methos stated matter-of-factly. "What are you doing here?"
Amanda tore her eyes away from the tattoo with some effort. She looked at him incredulously, at a loss what to say. He just stared back, waiting for her answer.
"I could ask you the same," she replied as the shock wore off and her brain kicked back in. "I see you got yourself a new crew."
Methos just shrugged. "What are you doing here?" he repeated.
"Take that sword out of my face and I'll tell you," she answered, trying to sit up straight. She wasn't going to let him see that he scared her.
He put the sword tip down on the ground and leaned on the hilt. "Now, what are you doing here?" he repeated for the third time. "And don't make me ask you again."
"Alright," she replied throwing her hands up defiantly. "Joe is worried, Methos."
His voice was flat when he replied: "He didn't seem to mind much last time we met. As I recall he thought I should've died instead of Mac."
"He was grieving. It's not like he was used to losing friends that should have outlived him." Amanda saw he wanted to say something then, but he let it go. Instead she continued. "He was out of his mind with worry when we didn't hear from you!"
Methos shrugged, "I've been busy."
"Too busy to tell us you're still alive?"
"I didn't think you'd care." Again, a statement delivered without emotion. "And besides, it's none of your business what I do. Which brings me nicely back to the question of what you are doing here. How did you find me anyway?"
"Abby. She saw you at the police station. She thought she'd seen a freaking ghost, Methos! She called Joe to ask if you had shown up in Paris."
"And then Joe started digging," Methos filled in the gap. "And he sent you to check if it was really me."
"And a good thing he did. You scared the shit out of Abby! What on earth were you thinking? Threatening her like that?"
"I was trying to scare her off, seems it worked. That's certainly better than dragging her into this," he reasoned.
His lack of an emotional response was beginning to scare her more than anything she'd found out so far. "The hell it worked," Amanda replied. "You know why she was at the station?"
Methos shook his head no, "I don't see what it should matter."
"Oh believe me, it does matter," Amanda told him. "She was there to see her boyfriend, I'd say you know him pretty well. His name's Nick Cole and now he's got one more reason to go after you."
"So?" was all he said, frustrating Amanda to no end.
"So? Is that all you've got to say?"
"Yes, I've got more pressing problems than a cop who's got it in for me cos I may have scared his girlfriend. "
"Oh please do share," Amanda replied sarcastically. She for one couldn't imagine how this situation could be any worse. Then she recalled the dead banker and Abby's suspicions and immediately regretted her choice of words. I should know better by now, it can always be worse, she thought bitterly.
Oblivious to her thoughts, Methos just replied, "for example the wounded guy waiting in the elevator two flights down."
"What?" she burst out, "are you out of your mind? What happened?"
Methos got up, sheathed his sword and said, "I shot him and now I'm patching him up. And you're going to help, now that you're here." And with that he was out the door, leaving a puzzled Amanda behind.
Methos was cursing under his breath as he took the stairs down to where Don was waiting in the elevator, blocking its door so it wouldn't move. Amanda would not just leave on her own without finishing their conversation. That just wasn't in her nature. But he knew she would play along in front of Don, because blowing his cover wasn't in her nature either, no matter what she might currently think of him. Which, judging by the way she'd eyed his tattoo could only be the worst.
"We can go up now," Methos stated as he squeezed in beside Don and pressed the button for 5th floor, deciding that his musings would have to wait until he could give Amanda the slip.
"What was wrong?" Don asked.
"I thought I'd heard something," Methos answered cryptically as he helped him from the elevator to the door, "and I was right. Don, meet Amanda," he added as they entered the apartment.
Amanda didn't miss a beat as she offered Don her hand, saying "pleased to meet you," as if they'd just met at a party instead of in a shabby apartment in the middle of the night with Don's leg bleeding through the makeshift bandage and her dressed up all in black like the thief she was. Methos bit back a smile at Don's stunned expression as Amanda led him to the couch. The urge to smile vanished as quickly as it had come when the other immortal gingerly removed the bloody shirt.
"What happened?" Amanda demanded to know testily.
"I told you," Methos replied from the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinet for bandages and towels. Filling a bucket with water, he added, "I shot him, now I patch him up."
Amanda shot him a look that said she wasn't going to accept this answer for long. But as he'd expected she didn't pry any further. Instead, she made room to let him clean the wound.
"You got lucky," he told Don, "the bullet went right through the flesh, nothing important was hit either."
Don grunted in reply, slightly rolling his eyes. If that was from the pain, or to say 'not thanks to you', Methos couldn't tell. When the wound was cleaned and disinfected, he said, "He needs stitches. Amanda, can you look in the bedroom closet? There are needles and thread in there." Pushing the disinfectant over he added, "we'll need to clean the stuff before we use it, but then he should be fine."
Amanda nodded and went into the bedroom. Quickly, Methos took a shirt from the coat rack next to the door and slipped out before they could stop him.
Caitlyn woke with a start, drawing air deep into her lungs. I died, she thought dizzily, but she couldn't remember how. The room she was in was light, all the wood - not just the furniture, but also the ceiling and part of the walls were made of wood, polished and glazed - made it feel cozy. She sat up on the bed with its sky blue sheets smelling of washing agent to get a look at the world outside the large window. That was when she realized she was sensing a Quickening. She quickly checked the room, but of course, her sword was nowhere to be found and the door was locked. A prison. Panic welled up inside her.
She let herself fall onto the bed, drawing deep breaths to ease her confusion. Slowly, her memory of the night before returned. He shot me, she remembered, why am I still alive? Nichols hadn't left the impression he'd be the type to spare anyone. And yet she was here. In this strangely soothing room. If it wasn't for the chains, this could be a bedroom in a vacation cabin or something. Judging by the light coming into the room, it had to be morning. But which morning? How long had she been dead for? And what place was this?
"I see you're back."
The voice jolted her out of her reverie. The guy it belonged to was standing in the door, holding a breakfast tray. The smell of coffee wafted over to her as he set it down on a low table between the two of them, just within her reach.
"I brought you something to eat," Nichols said as he sat down opposite her in a big upholstered chair, his appearance clashing with the comfy cosy setting. And yet, he didn't look all that much out of place as he leaned back, waiting. He looks perfectly at ease, she thought, the hairs on her back rising.
"Why am I here?" she asked warily, her back leaning against the wall. I need to get out of here. Nichols was blocking the way though. The only chance I have is if he's distracted, I could never take him one on one, she decided.
"Because I wanted to talk to you," he said simply. He took one of the two coffee cups from the tray and looked at her expectantly over its rim.
"So you shoot me and then you bring me here?" Caitlyn replied. "You say you just want to talk, and I should believe you?"
"Hey, you were the one out for my head," he reminded her, "besides, if I wanted you dead, you would be."
"And you were the one who killed my husband," she retorted, anger rising within her, making her scoot forward to sit on the edge of the mattress.
"Touché," he acknowledged, unmoving.
How can he sit there, calmly sipping coffee and admit to murder this casually? She had expected him to deny it or at least to start sanctifying himself, blaming it all on Assaro who undoubtedly was the one that gave the order in the first place. When she realized he wasn't going to say anything else without a prompt, she said, "and I'm just supposed to forget about that, or what?"
"No," he fixed her with an intense look, probably to gauge her reaction, "but maybe you can put it aside for a while."
"And why would I do that?" she replied, hoping her curiosity wasn't showing. This is surreal, she thought, eyeing the breakfast tray. The food made her mouth water. Focus, Cat! "After all you tortured Thomas to death." With that came a flood of images that nearly took her breath away and the food didn't look that appetizing anymore.
"I think we have a common enemy, you and I," he replied calmly, "Assaro needs to go, permanently."
4
